


Like Walking on Eggshells

by Novels



Series: Reprise [6]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, almost established relationship, book-verse, which is my favourite tag on earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 00:43:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20331211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novels/pseuds/Novels
Summary: Elio, Oliver and Michael have dinner together, and Elio and Oliver have to navigate the sea of things they cannot talk about in front of Oliver's child.





	Like Walking on Eggshells

**Author's Note:**

> This is not as lame as the summary is, I promise. I hope.  
I have a rather busy week coming up, so I can't promise more updates in the next few days. I'll try, though :)  
Enjoy!

Dinner was a much more relaxed affair than I expected. Michael had the same easy-going attitude that I had envied Oliver so much when I first met him and kept the conversation going. He was just sixteen -- he’d told me by way of answer when I asked him if he knew what he wanted to study at the university -- but he was not lacking in conversation skills. He chatted away with his father about an upcoming trip to the mall with his friends, about some movies he wanted to see, about a boring book he had to read for school.

"I'm on holiday, why do I have to spend my free time studying?" he complained without much conviction. I had the impression he was the type of teenager that put up a front to look just like the others, only to grab a book the moment you turned your back. Or a score, or maybe just a video game. Anything to satisfy the curious glint I could detect in his eyes. It shouldn't have surprised me, that Oliver's kid had a natural propensity for inquisitiveness, but it did surprise me how much he reminded me of myself at his age. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on my part -- there was no denying that I wanted to like Oliver's children, not to mention I was desperate for them to like me. After all, it was something I had had a lot of time to consider, over the years. First as a vague concept, barely even touched upon in the darkest moments of my life, when the thought of Oliver was too strong to be repressed and I had to remind myself why we couldn't be together. Then as a sudden possibility, staring at an old postcard with different handwritings on the back, wondering if a life with Oliver -- present-day Oliver, not a bright memory of him -- was really what I wanted, was really what I needed. It seemed that it was, indeed.

No matter why, I did see a lot of me in Michael, and it wasn't just because he was a young, talented pianist, or because he was complaining about doing homework. He had wise eyes for a sixteen-year-old. I wondered how much his parents' divorce had played a role in that. He didn't seem angry at Oliver, at least. I knew very little about his separation from his wife, but I did wonder how that had worked out. I would have to ask, sooner rather than later. But certainly not now.

"That's because it is your duty and it will make you a smart person," huffed Oliver, sounding even less convinced than his son. "Elio agrees, right?" Was he really dragging me into this?

"Oliver, do you actually recall me ever doing homework while you were at the villa?" I asked him, raising an eyebrow and giving him my best smirk. I could see his eyes pop in slight surprise at my mention of his time in Italy.

He answered with a short laugh, averting his eyes and shaking his head. "Point made."

"The villa?" asked Michael, looking at me curiously.

"Yeah, your father and I met when he came to stay with my family for a few weeks in 1983. We have this lovely villa on the lake and my father would always invite a promising student to spend the summer with us. He was a university professor, too." I smiled fondly at the memory.

"It's where I finished writing my first book, Michael. I talked to you about it quite recently, do you remember?"

Michael nodded, looking pensive. "Yeah, I do. But you haven't mentioned Mr. Perlman being there. I would certainly remember that."

I wiggled on the chair, avoiding looking at Oliver. Maybe bringing up Italy right now had not been a great idea.

"Please, call me Elio, Michael," I told him, deflecting. "Nobody who actually knows me calls me Mr. Perlman. Anyway, I'm sure that as fond as your father was of me that summer, the one thing worth remembering about his stay in Italy was the excellent manuscript he managed to get finished. Heraclitus, uh?" I had phrased that well, right? No lies in there, just a bit of omission for everybody's sake. Talk about walking on eggshells.

Oliver hummed in assent. "That was quite a breakthrough at the time, yes," he added, studiously not looking at me.

"Dad still gloats about how successful that book was, you know," Michael said, rolling his eyes. He didn't seem to notice any awkwardness between his father and me, thank God.

"Hey, young man, that book is one of the many reasons I could afford to have two little brats like you and your brother," Oliver retorted, putting up a vaguely affronted face.

The way Michael laughed made me think this was a recurring joke between them. Watching them interact reminded me of how my father would talk to me without reserve, so honest and sincere, with so much affection. I missed him terribly in moments like this, when I wished he could still be here to talk me through whatever mess I got myself into. He would be pretty proud of this one, I thought.

"How old is your brother?" I asked, trying to shift the conversation toward a more neutral topic. Thankfully, Michael had a lot to say about his annoying little brother, who apparently was three years younger and a -- I quote -- total pain in his ass.

Dinner was over soon enough and by the end of it I was sure Michael and I could go along wonderfully, if given the chance. It made me feel more confident about my decision -- in all fairness, I had not realised how deeply unsure I had been about getting back with Oliver until I was face to face with all the consequences of my decision. Was I selfish enough to go along with it? Could I really walk back into Oliver’s life and get his children to accept me, his friends to like me? Could I really demand so much from people I didn't even know? Was it fair at all?

I excused myself from the table to go to the toilet, mulling these questions over.

As I returned, I caught Oliver washing the dishes as Michael rinsed them, the picture of domesticity.

"Were you two very close?" I heard Michael ask as I walked back to the kitchen. Oliver hesitated, maybe a tad too much for it not to feel weird.

"We were, for a short time," I said, looking at Oliver with a small smile. Michael turned to me and looked a bit guilty.

I gave him a reassuring smile. "Your father and I shared a lot of interests back then, and there weren't that many interesting people around that summer."

Michael gave me a dubious look. "I don't know if I would call dad interesting, really. He can only talk about dead philosophers and how boring university meetings are." Oliver looked affronted. I did laugh at that.

"I was a seventeen-year-old with a passion for classical music and forgotten French novels, Michael. You wouldn't have thought me interesting, either. And your father was a much younger scholar at that time. He had a lot of clever opinions on everything. I'm sure he still has." I added that as an afterthought, smiling apologetically at Oliver. He was looking at me with such tenderness that I had to avert my eyes before I said too much.

"But I really should be going," I said. Oliver being arms deep in soapy water would give me the perfect excuse not to hug him, or shake hands, or do anything else equally unworthy of expressing how I felt about leaving him.

"So soon?"

I was surprised that question came from Michael, rather than his father. Two pairs of identical eyes were staring at me, looking rather disappointed. I hesitated, staring at Oliver.

I clearly couldn't stay while his son was there with him, and I really thought it best to leave now, before Oliver offered something to drink and I ended up sleeping on his sofa.

"I am afraid so, Michael." I said, "I must admit that jetlag is catching up on me a bit and I'd rather crash at home. But what do you say you two pass by mine tomorrow afternoon? I have a grand piano I'm sure you'd like."

Michael looked positively excited. "Can we do that, dad?" he asked Oliver.

"Sure thing, if you'd like that," he agreed, smiling at his son.

"I'm staying at my parent's old flat, do you remember where it is?" I told Oliver. He nodded.

"I'm sure I can get both of us there."

"It's a date then," I hoped that didn't sound as charged as it felt in my head.

"Indeed it is," answered Oliver, and I thought I could see the same intensity reflected in his eyes. We would have to find a way to be alone again soon.

As I made my way out of the building and summoned a taxi, I allowed myself to truly hope. I had taken the biggest risk of my life, I had crossed an ocean to get the love of my life back, I had demanded his attention, his devotion. And he had given it to me. He'd opened himself up for me, he'd bared his soul for me, and he had promised.

I was certain. No matter what, we would make this work.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading, leaving a kudo and commenting.  
I'll update this as soon as I can!


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